ALEA IACTA EST
by LainBay
Summary: The Die is cast. Not all people were made for happy endings, or even happy beginnings; take Severus Snape, potions master of Hogwarts for example...AU
1. Chapter 0: On Characterization READ!

-On Characterization-

The exposition of a person is no easy thing to write. Humans are complex thinking creatures, and what makes their clockwork tick, so to speak, in a particular instant is hard to define or pinpoint, based as it is on a combination of past reinforced programming (social and environmental) and a myriad of impulses of the nervous system.

Fight or flight, these are impulses that become ingrained into our psyche, so that our very past becomes the groundwork for our future. It is no wonder then, that one with a darker past will ever have even darker a future– light once denied will ever after be mistrusted for the folly it is. Even as a plant denied of much water and light and given salt grows stunted ever after, so it is with people; some people, simply but, HAVE no brighter future. This is the essence of the account that follows.

How erroneous that much of the western world should believe in such claptrap (that some triumph even when they have a bad start), when it is evident that life is an uncomfortable, rude, ungainly menace visited upon the surface of the indifferent earth. There are many stories of perseverance, but for my purposes, they are those of mindless stubbornness, _not_ of any other particular quality of redemption. There is no redemption for some souls that are lost.

So much time then, is wasted for wanting better than what is for our characters in our stories. That is not to say labor, effort and ambition are bad– oh no. They are misused, when their use could be better guided toward an adequate ending. The world is not a Disney film, where everything comes up roses and bunnies.

Very often, a story will not have an ending at all–merely closure. It may not be happy– per se– or even satisfying, but for those involved, it has a sense of finality that is not frequently found, even in reality. Nothing more is needed, for the viewers matter little to those who live the written word– the story. Closure is not absolute. Endings are not always endings.

Life, **_real_** life is a tragi-comedy of error, an itchy sensation of unease, a triumph of uncertainty, lust and passion. To uncover the origins of an individuals behavior amongst all this, nuances of behavior must be peeled away, the past uncovered and seen in its stark entirety (and analyzed), tics traced, reactions pursued...and even then, determinations made on these are uncertain in accuracy.

To know a man–person or individual– no amount of analysis will allow the bare, predetermined thought process of the brain/mind to be entirely uncovered– which neurons are firing, like the scalded cat of Twain– the mind of man is complete in mystery, and replete with idiosyncracy. His actions are less complete and fully replete. They are all that we may truly observe, or guess at.

We shall examine these, instead, for they make far better reading than a treatise on the vagaries of mind over body... Suffice to say that no easy task lies ahead, reader— but perhaps in the end you will judge for yourself the nature of the man –natura animus– and be comforted in the fact that so bestial a species may still abide a bit of humanity and compassion even in the depths of its cruelty.

Or, you may be horrified to learn, it may not.

It all depends on how you read it...

Tuesday, September 22, 2004 9:11am ©Lanenkar ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ALEA IACTA EST 

And with that, we get into the story: Severus Snape, renowned potions master and educator of indifferent students. But what shaped the man? No man forms entirely alone in his habits, actions, reactions. No man is an island.

Consciously or subconsciously, we are shaped by every experience in our lives, building neural pathways in our brains, making connections and relations to every other bit of memory stored within. Every added memory shapes our future actions, much as a cat burnt by a hot stove will never sit on one again, or a child burned by an iron will forever after be wary of them... And chance can alter these things. A roll of the dice, and we change as our world changes, we fear that change even as it happens, with or without our sentient consent– without consulting our emotions.

We are social beings. We interact. We are not made to be isolated, alone. Many find that this drives them insane, makes them depressed. How then, can sanity be claimed if one is alone their entire life? It is a precarious postulate, at best.

Thus we come to the Nature of the Man: Severus Snape. Alone, disliked. How can one be so truly individual? Must they renounce the world? Must they not care, or disregard all others? Does this require overweening selfishness, or is it the result of cynicism and bitterness? And how well do we truly ever know each other, if we abhor the inanities of casual social contact but desire intellectual stimulation instead? How much is hidden from students about who Severus is?

Someday, we might begin to know.

©Lanenkar 


	2. Chapter 1: Alea Iacta Est

With no further ado

-ALEA IACTA EST-

Their parents had cautioned them never to sail the skiff on the strait when storm clouds were visible gathering darkly on the western horizon–out to sea. But on that day in late February, weary of long winter hours trapped inside, the two boys trudged to the boathouse and dock at the urging of the elder, Solinus, and much foot-dragging on the part of the younger more introverted Severus, picnic basket in hand.

Two pairs of hands, however much unwilling one should be, are still quick to make short any effort, and the brisk breeze delighted both with the promise of a lively spring to come. The course set, and their escape unchecked, they aimed for a circumnavigation of a nearby island–and a wicker basket full of lunch packed by complicitous house-elves charmed into discretion by the personably and easy going Solinus. A fine afternoon indeed! Toils with rope and sail rewarded with brisk exercise and an excellent lunch were the indubitable cause of much cloud gazing on the shore and a sleepy nap, shattered by the first drops of rain as the storm got its first fath drops earthbound with vigor!

A rush to pack the baskets and–to the boat!– but Severus protested, noting the growing venom of the wind and waves. Solinus, ever the confident one, he-of-many-scrapes-weathered-unscathed justified quickly their sailing forth; they had to be home before supper, else parents or house-elves complain and punish, and they had sailed worse, hadn't they? Ignoring the feeble caution-voice that protested that their father had been along, no, no matter.

Wet heavy canvas, and gusting gale force winds are no mere foil for young homebound boys of scholarly persuasion or even of sporting such; such that they quickly were overpowered when block and sail gave way and tore in twain; as they held on, fearful and frozen helpless against the merciless black maw of the storm-front. No chance to turn back, and the tide was against them, pulling them away from the safe harbor of their intended destination to the darkness of the cliffs lining the coast to the north.

Trapped like ants on driftwood, the tidal bore threw them foaming at the cliffs, and they cling together– "Keep your head above water, Sev!"– and swam desperately, drunkenly as the helpless younger clung to the older swimmer.– "Hold ON! Don't let go of me!"– praying oh god, ohgod, save him, my brother Solinus, at least! I'm too little and I can't swim, but if you save him, I'll be alright, please! I'm not strong or good or smart and Mother and father wont care, oh god, _please_...

Cruel cold Atlantic denied of her victims, sought redress of crueler irony– a wooden slat, torn perhaps from the wreckage of their own small vessel or another, leaped forth from the crest of a wave and struck punishingly, not, however, before the elder held the younger close and whispered in a chance moment of final clarity– "Don't give up, Sev'rus, I love you, right?"

Darkness, blood and pain and fear exploding, and frozen bodies unable to let go floated then upon the lessening swells, born hours hence finally southward, Atlantic's mischief managed, journey safe after ravaging misfortune had already claimed them.

Indeterminate time later to the sleepers found a pebbly shore and distraught searchers who upon horrified discovery of those almost drowned bore them back to their winter place of imprisonment, the manor. Warm beds aside, the older did not wake to subdue the bump on his skull, and went deeper as hours passed, and the younger more delicate (though in some ways spiritually and willfully stronger) fought the cold and wet of lung fulls of water only to succumb to pneumonia.

The next day would dawn the son dulled, Solinus to be a memory–

Hic Jacet Solinus Septimus Snape  
-Beloved Son and Heir-  
_Pax Vobiscum Perpetua_  
n.1954- q.1965 

And Bitter, bitter the regret of parents too long indulgent of their own selfish lives, indifferent to the mis-adventuring of their blood! No more; the youngest WOULD survive, if soul-price to be exacted for the blackest of magikal cures, so be it! The Elder had no chance of ever awakening, and blood price could be paid–oh the horror, the horror!– by their heir to save the spare.

Then shaped and molded he would be–by poison, cunning, teachings of trickery and cruelty, _Iussu Paternus_– no more sons– hated sons!– would be lost because of this younger spare, this abomination that only the elder had loved, had weakened by showing affection, had saved at the cost of his own life. No Snape was allowed love, it was weak, it was Muggle, its presence ignored in the Heir, allowed to exist because Sol-HE would grow out of it. No more! No moral crisis over the fate of the Heir, keep the Spare. This child, silent often, brilliant, brooding– childish murderer of the worst sort, hamartia of the elder...Blood price must be extracted, paid for, and pain of heart– No! No Snape had a heart!– punished against his trespass.

In short the die was cast, the blood spilled, and dark was the road to be trod– for a child unloved, now, by all, a life empty of joy, poisoned by memories of sunshine and laughter. Solinus, like Icarus of Daedalus, too high, too bright; Severus, tormented in brilliance with the darkness of the labyrinth, grief and guilt-unfair-unearned, his Minotaur.

This chapter is short, as will all following chapters. They are meant to provide slides of Severus' life and his misfortunes. All of the latin translations will be found at the end of the chapter....and I'll put them here, if y'all are slow and don't want to look them up. I'm assuming you're slow...hee hee! Please review, thanks!

alea iacta est– the die is cast


	3. Chapter 2: Ex Post Facto

-Ex post facto-

For lateness and slovenly attire from the Heir of Snape Manor: two lashes across the back of the legs. Pain to linger, obedience a blood price. Hours of study to be extended, in Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, Manners and all other aspects of genteel life. Any failures seen as defiance, punished further with lack of food, more work, occasional beatings— even, say quietly, torture.

Parents remote and cold, affection banished under work, work, work. The light of day denied, frequently tested, found wanting– poison in the food, find the antidote, brew it! Quick! Quick! Poison in the air– his brother, the HEIR sacrificed so he could live to serve their Master, the Dark Lord. Poison inside– left behind, the homely intelligent youngest, to fill a role more brutally rewritten than a Chinese torture manual. He couldn't give up–no, merciful gods, denied that release!— he promised, he could not!

The Arts studied, no visiting The Grave of Fraternity, denied, denied. "You killed him, you shall not have the privilege of seeing his final resting place, ungrateful wretch!" Screams. Shouts. Beatings. Wormwood. Acornite. Tarragon, Ashwinders' eggs, a Bezoar. 1966 and then 1967.

1968 and two years elapsed. A cold, silent, watchful THING– childhood extracted like water from a particularly odiferous cheese. Pale, thin, greasy hair— too many poisons, immunity for the distaff ancestor of Slytherin– no one would ever successfully poison or polyjuice a Snape!

A distinct ingrained hesitancy of manners, slightly old-fashioned, even for the Wizarding World, a defense mechanism for the public veneer of tolerance and the silent hatred of his paternity. He was a watcher— a learner by observation and non-participant in the circles of affection that the rest of the world so tirelessly sought for. Affection, in his abode (no _home_ for the stunted too-adult child) was never in question— _things_, yes, in abundance. Affection? Not a chance!

Emotions, weakness, both anathema; sadness, banished in his early years solely by his brother, a rampaging pest. No more would anyone value him, except as a tool, a thing of use, for his skills and knowledge. The languages he had learned at his brothers side and during his life stood him in good stead now: Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, German, Chinese, Japanese, Gaelic... But these were not enough to earn him acclaim. Even the house elves bullied and mocked him at the orders of their Master.

Snapes were not foolish. They were not weak.

They were _afraid_.

And _alone_.

Even after the fact, the pain endured from those two years could never be forgotten, the lessons engraved in blood and hatred and loneliness upon the soul of the not-child, Severus Snape.

ex post facto after the fact  
(or as I prefer, ex post fuctolost in the mail)  
©Lanenkar 


	4. Chapter 3: Cum Grano Salis

-Cum Grano Salis- _(The vilest measure of poison)_

A letter! Addressed to him, on the side table, by the tea set. Raptures! But who, indeed, would write to him? His grandparents would not, convinced by his paternoster that he grieved still for his brother. Threats to ensure his subdued behavior before them. And he did, but not ever in public– only the silence of his eternally half-empty bedchamber. A reminder.

With a crackle, the paper opened, tea poured and prepared, the way his mother and father preferred. No Snape was impatient. "Read, Severus. What does it say?" Cool indifference marked the tone directed at him, interest solely contained by the letters contents. "Dear Mr. Snape....etc. Etc..."

* * *

HOGWARTS SCHOOL   
_of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY


	5. Chapter 4: Multum In Parvo

-Multum in Parvo-

The street was teeming with people of all descriptions, colors, sizes! Like the tide at full flow or grunions on a beach, they flopped and spoke and moved in a warm wall of scent and noise. To Flourish and Blotts for books, oh! The store made him drool– such knowledge, things to read, words to escape into... The candy store, no, sweets were often poisoned, none for me Grandad.

Ollivanders', dusty and crashing of things broken and repaired before –finally!– a new wand was selected: purple bloodwood and dragon heartstring core, twelve inches, with a carven ebony grip, good for hexes and potion-making. The wand a bit more powerful than most wizards', but his grandparents insisted–oh yes!– he was a responsible and mature child, to handle a wand like that...One with such _dark_ potential. They were so certain, aye, that sweet Severus who had died the night of the storm, unbeknownst to them, would manage just fine, thank you, Ollivander—now how much for it?

They insisted on taking him to Diagon Alley, that day, despite protestations on his parents part that he was still grieving, with a no-nonsense, "He must move on some time, dears. We'll do you a favor and take him off your hands– he will be an angel, I'm sure." Since it WAS a favor to them (how little could they stand the sight of him) off he went. So there he was, a crow amongst peacocks, solemn in black, dark eyes wide with wonder– alive in his sheltered, still face.

His grandparents made suggestions, and listened –a first!– very carefully as he decided where to go next. The list of school necessities was engraved on his heart, a litany of hope. Their affection, too late, was noted absently as a clinical scholar would note hunger or exhaustion– as a distraction from the task at hand, almost physically separate from the body, mind and intellect.

But Oh, the **_books_** they had bought him! Robes as well– all in the same unrelieved black, his pale skin even more sallow in the light, his thinness remarked over with concern by his grandparents, their concern and attention safely deflected by a soft-voiced protestation, "I haven't really _felt_ like eating, really, Grandmere..." and an apologetic look. _Sniff_. "Well then. That's that, you'll just have to be eating more! Ah, yes– thank you dear,"–to his grandfather–"Now, how about a bit of Fortesques', eh? A treat, hmmm?" And with that he was ushered out of Madame Malkin's past the disapproving lady herself ("All black, on a child, _really_! And two years later, still!?") into the street again, never alone for a minute! How strange to be so alone within the crowd. How he suddenly wished to sink into the shadows, where he belonged— alone, in the silence. Ah, to be in his schoolroom at home, making a bubbling potion undisturbed.

Down the street they traveled, then, but he paused at the owl emporium, momentarily entranced and distracted. So when his grandfather's hand landed on his shoulder, he jumped in fright, and quickly moved a step away so the hand slid off him. This was noted by his grandparents, who exchanged a worried glance– he was so...so skittish! What had happened to him after the death of his brother to make him so leery of human touch? Something was amiss. Quickly, to cover up the awkward pause, Grandfather Snape spoke, "I'm sorry lad, to forget you'd be wanting a familiar– got my first myself, before my first year...a Snape tradition! Well, besides our gift for potion- making." He shared a small grin with his quiet grandson. "Go on, go in and pick one, we'll wait right here and watch." With a quirk of the lips, he ushered Severus inside.

Inside was scrupulously clean, though a faint musty smell announced the many animals therein. With steady firmness, each animal was carefully examined, with a thoroughness that only a potions master's child could produce–exacting and swift and sure– yet each animal somehow seemed lacking to the quiet boy. Another survey led to the same conclusion under the watchful eyes of the store attendant. Opening his mouth ruefully to tell his Grandfather that today was not his lucky day, both were startled when a flurry of loud hacking cries and curses erupted form the back of the shop. "Fine, then, dang thrice-blasted devil-bird! Merlin!!" A flurry of black feathers and a red-faced man emerged from the back as the store clerk not-so-surreptitiously sank into hiding behind the counter! "Blasted thing! Have it your way, then! But don't you be causin' no mischief t'day, hear?!" The feathers sailed with an impudent, "CARK!" to the floor and became a large black raven, with dancing red eyes and sharp beak and ruffled crest. Bobbing its head it hopped forward, eyeing the newcomers with obvious interest. "Thing musta seen somethin' thru tha' door, puttin' up such an awful ruckus like that. Knocked over 'is cage an' everythin'. Reckon you folks better hol' still, he likes to nibble, that un' does."

No need. Severus had frozen, eyes locked with the bird, almost mesmerized by its lively sidling gait toward him. A moment of silence passed, and the proprietor watched anxiously as the bird tilted its head one way, then the other, examining the two men. Cocking its head, it watched as the boy similarly regarded it. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it took flight again, catcalling loudly before landing firmly on Severus' shoulder, dipping its head and raising its wings for a final shake and emphatic, "CARK!!" The boy still didn't move from startlement. "Well, tha's a first! Birds like that one are real smart– mischievous too," the bird bobbed its head and clicked its beak as if assenting to the statement, "been in here a long time, gets bored, easy like. 'E causes a mort'o'trouble. But bird chooses the Wizard they say. I'd best be gettin' you 'is things–can't find a better companion, once tha' Raven chooses ya'."

This earned him a distracted nod of agreement. Severus extended a tentative finger, which the bird accepted cheerfully with an affectionate nibble. Turning his head, he entreated with a measure of his old enthusiasm, "May I have him, _please_ Grandad?" A sigh and a nod, and the bird and its gear were on their way, perched upon Severus' shoulder and cheerily making rude remarks in his ear on all and sundry passers-by. Punctuated, of course, with some nibbling and tugging upon his black hair. The glow of ownership, indeed!

Then to the ice cream parlour they went, where confused by the many option, he was sent to sit outside with Grandmother while Grandad ordered and brought their sundaes back, a quirk on his lips and eyes uncharacteristically twinkling. All three tucked in with vigor, the raven (yet un- named) hopping from Severus' shoulder onto the table to decimate a small cup of nuts brought for him and occasionally stealing pecks at Severus' sundae, which the boy quietly allowed.

A discussion of bird names and titles ensued, as his grandparents sought to draw him out of his shell–each in the manner they were accustomed to. "Well, have you thought of any names for your new friend?" "Rue! Rue is a good name, I think. Don't you, Grandmere?" "Yes, I quite like that name, Severus. Rue he shall be. My, but he is a fine looking bird. I hope that you will be able to keep him from getting too out of hand, Severus. Large birds like him need a lot of attention." "Yes, of course, Grandmere... I will." Severus concentrated on eating his sundae again. "How is the sundae, Severus?" "Ohh, gu-ud, Grandm're... I haven' had anything like thish in a long...er, for a while." He ate rapidly and quietly, manners exacting except for his brief lapse over talking with sundae in his mouth.

His grandfather's method was more unexpected.

In the peace of the busy street, the three made a sober ocean of calm until Severus' older cousin (and his brother's friend) Sirius Black wandered by, and upon catching sight of Severus drew closer to his cousin, leaping over the rail to sneer quietly in his ear. "Snivellus! I hear you were responsible for Solinus' death, eh? Nice going, little coz'," with a sneer of cruel delight he watched as the pallor of Severus' skin increased, his knuckles whitening upon his spoon.

With that Sirius turned and in the most excessively pleasant manner possible, greeted Severus' grandparents as though nothing had just happened. Severus abruptly set down his spoon and rose, expressionless, to speak, his face still completely white and eyes empty, almost glazed. Opening his mouth to respond to the cruel jibe unheard by his grandparents, he choked! And then began to wheeze as his throat shrank around a particularly hard piece of nut and his throat melted and reformed!

Black was howling with laughter when his grandfather pounded his back, dislodging the nut, and his young voice emerged in a falsetto squeak, "You...YOU!" Horrified, Severus whirled and shot his grandfather a betrayed glare. The old man was smirking hugely, Snape style, thinking his little harmless trick a great joke! After all, a potions master had to always be careful when eating... Rage, which he was so helpless against, broke over him. Sweets! His downfall was always sweets. Poisoned forever after for him, always. The sweet things in life were denied to him, even inadvertently. What a fool he had been to trust, even _family_. Black was excellent evidence why not to. He was alone, truly.

He sat down again, staring at the table, unresponsive. To be betrayed by his family–grandfather, no less! In front of his cousin, who hated him with unparalleled passion for the death of Solinus, Sirius' best friend... and whom he hated for torturing him for reading and the memories of his brother –and to be unable to defend himself–treachery forsooth! He had thought only his parents that cruel. They had certainly beat that lesson into him enough–trust no-one!

Grandmother saved Grandfather from complete and utter irredemption in the eyes of his grandson by snapping out, "Septimus Snape! Cease your howling this INSTANT! The boy obviously does not find your trick funny. Nor do I, –Honestly! Quit behaving like some common hooligan. What an utterly cruel thing to do without properly warning the boy." She ignored Grandfather's splutterings about potions masters needing to be constantly vigilant and turned to glare at Black, somehow suspecting him for the bizarre behavior of Severus. "Don't think that I don't know your game, young Black. Off with you, and cease tormenting your cousin with baseless gossip and slandering the family–on the street!– and in **_public_**! Your mother shall be hearing from me about your behavior! Now, Scat!!"

When Black protested, she growled out, "Don't deny it, young man. Just off with you. Think you that I am hard of hearing, hmm? Now!" Then in the same indignant tone, she rose to her feet and commanded with the fury of a petticoated general, "The antidote, Septimus, and we're leaving! Really, to make such a scene of us upon the street! How common must you be, husband?!! That'll be enough of your foolishness today! Really, you rely too much upon your credit with your grandson, to abuse him in such a way! One begins to wonder what he sees in you, to make you his favorite..."

That certainly snuffed out his Grandfather's amusement rapidly, and shamefacedly, Severus was administered the antidote and apologized to as his grandmother bustled him out of the shop, their sundaes unfinished. His grandfather trailed behind, worriedly, hoping that his misplaced "bit of fun" had not further alienated his favorite grandson. Severus didn't notice, however, as he had shrunk into himself, following their directives emptily, and even his new raven Rue was unable to rouse him with its cheeky antics.

Unbeknownst to him, this made his grandparents even more concerned; while not a demonstrative child by nature, this automaton was chilling to observe even for the reserved Snape family— before, the child would have shared a giggle at such a joke (ostensibly because his brother would find it funny) and given a tiny smile after his cousin had left. It was a change that heralded much worse, so much in so very little, it was. Not good at _all_. The tiniest action would alienate the boy. It is the small things –after all– that really say so much, if only the brain is subtle and intelligent enough to figure them out.

Even the tears, few and small, that trickled silently down his face on the way home went unremarked upon. Snivellus could not manage to control those. Nobody said a word when he refused to let his grandmother brush them away, or when he refused to let his grandfather hug him goodbye when they arrived home to Snape Manor. Instead, he coolly wished Septimus well and bussed his grandmother on the cheek carefully.

Were his tears of hurt pride, shame or betrayal?

Multum in parvo, veritas.

multum in parvomuch in a little

cozcousin (Shakespeare uses this frequently)

©Lanenkar 2004


	6. Chapter 5: Non Compos Mentis

-Non Compos Mentis-

"The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be lighted."–Plutarch

"A good teacher is like a candle; it consumes itself to light the way for others."-

The fire had been lit, but the ashes left behind of the childhood–nay, innocence of who Severus had been still sat in the crucible of suffering that had forged the new. His grandparents were not the only ones to notice. Every shy, studious and withdrawn. The child only became more so without the influence of his elder brother.

A most uncommon child, too old in spirit for his few years, fighting to hold on– hold on to a promise made silently to a brother– striving, scheming to be free, to be better-worthy of the absent-minded selfish affection indulged in rarely by his selfish family.

To distort such a mind in a person so starved for affection, by presenting it a challenge as a substitute for the affection craved –to dangle a carrot, if you will– or give it an illusive impossible goal, kindle in it a desire, and allow that desire to become an obsession... A criminal act.

Obsession: a desire so strong that the mind once sound will surrender to it, surrender everything: sanity, morals, love.

Potions: a passion, a love, an obsession. To do well at the "family business," was to gain recognition of his sad existence. Of a sort. Acceptance, in part, that he was now their Heir.

Acceptance– the darkest, deadliest of desires, for those without it will eventually commit all to its gain–and for naught, if it be but for _usefulness_ alone. One cannot gain true acceptance from being useful to others. So, it is like a poison that slowly causes the mind and the soul to crack from within–all because of a desire of human nature. A desire that is badly serving of sanity and life.

Who needs acceptance? Better, to have fear. Fear is caused by power, and power always is given recognition, which is a form of acceptance. And nobody would ever admit that all they wish is to be accepted. Oh no. Even Niccolo Machiavelli saw that; "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both."

Of unsound mind, then unsound, the body will follow–and the soul unto darkness profound...

non compos mentisof unsound mind

©Lanenkar 2004


End file.
